# Chapter 1 of the short novel of Holder Volcano "Letters of "mizhappar "

Вулкан Холдор

(The short novel)

Holder Volcano

Member Of The Union Of Writers Of Uzbekistan


"Letters of Mizhappar "


(The short novel)


(In loving memory of the great humorist of Uzbekistan Hadjibay Tadjibayev)


The first letter of Mizhappar


Let this letter, which I write now, hurrying like a storm, raging like a Typhoon; reach the hands of the esteemed Sitmirat, who lives in those countries where democracy thrives like Japanese Sakura in the spring. Let this be the letter is clear to him like the full moon in a deserted silence of the snowy field of the farm, where we plant cotton in the spring. Hello, Mr. Sitmirat , my name is Mizhappar. I'm a worker of the collective farm of 'Chapaev'. My friends, workers obey the Government of our Country collective farm 'Chapaev' exceeded the annual plans for the collection of cotton, courageously defeating all the vagaries of a harsh nature. Thanks to our wise President and Government, for making bread cheap. A man will not die if he does not eat meat. That is, it will cost and without meat. For us to lick the bread with water that would not have risen in price and the air was free. Now, Mr. Sitmirat, if your clothing or boots rips, it's not scary. You can patch them up, and the stomach? What do you think, is it possible to sew up the stomach at least for a day and live without eating anything, as it is not so. Recently, we went in search of bread for mills with bags in the armpits. And now, thanks again to our wise President and the Government that bread and water is cheap, air is free. That's important. I am writing this historic letter and thinking about those days when disappeared from the store the first necessary items with the shops, and remembered one funny story. The story is very funny and when I think about this case are filled with laughter and can't stop. I can't stop even when I'm staring at my nails to crush my laughter. Here is now, too, write this letter and is crаcking hand from laughter. In short, in those grim days of my age and relative Qurumboy from the village "Lattaqishlaq" went to town in search of vegetable oil. He walked among the shops of the Bazaar and saw a young man who traded vegetable oil. Qurumboy asked the seller for the price. The seller called the price. The price was acceptable and Qurumboy decided to buy thinking: "the Price is acceptable. I'll buy more, excess resale to their neighbors in the at exorbitant prices ". While he thought the seller asked him a delicate question, say: - Haw many liters, sir?

- Two... no, three pints please - said Qurumboy, pulling money out for genies his tarpaulin boots without soles. -Well, Mr. - He said, and took one three-liter glass jar with a sealed lid. Then wiping it with a towel, gave Qurumboy. He has paid and gently put a three-liter glass jar in a bag. When Qurumboy arrived home unharmed, on the bus on the brand "Pazik" like a loaf of bread yellow, his mother was very happy. Anyhow, of course I will be happy. After all, they are three months in a row did not take hot, and now this! The mother of Qurumboy even cried due to joy, then cleared the cabbage, corn, turnips, potatoes and surgical care poured into the pot of vegetable oil, some brought by Qurumboy. Well purified, transparent oil lay in the bottom of the blackened boiler. Qurumboy began spreading the fire. The fire in the hearth burned a long time ago but, for some reason, the oil is not warmed up. I mean, he didn't smoke. Suddenly, the heated oil began to boil. Seeing this, Qurumboy and his mother were touched by surprise. It turns out that the seller is a bastard, bought by Qurumboy not vegetable oil, but cold tea. Then Qurumboy in one week spends the money on transportation, he went into town and was looking for the seller of a scoundrel on the market, but could not find him. Now here is, vegetable oil, thank God emerged on counters. Although, more expensive, but there is. I don't understand people. Here, some complain all the time, it came to light, gas, and drinking water. If I had, I would have destroyed all those electrolytes, the pole, and the electric strip from the switchboard. It turns out that electric current is the most dangerous and harmful substance to human life. See, how many people died from the electric current in our village, when they were picking on a screwdriver in their hands, hoping to twist the meter, as if avoiding paying for electricity. As the fire breaks out, with a green-red sparkle and explode counter in place with the host as a bomb with clockwork. Some burned houses to the ground from the fact that the outbreak of the jumpers flew straight into the attic, where they kept dry hay for the winter for livestock. Hay ethno, is also an inflammable substance like gunpowder in the barrel. It's better to live without electricity. In our village Chapaev every day, from morning to evening and from evening to morning turn off the lights. Naturally, I rejoice in it. My parents, that is, my stepfather and stepmother are also happy, stepfather to say, when no electricity, Mizhappar will not be watching TV, and he'll fall asleep early. Yesterday, I, as played by barn from cow dung, suddenly, in unison shouted, selcan and I almost took a heart attack. They shouted loudly: -Huraaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay!.

I think, really came Mr. Sitmirat on an armored personnel carrier with the opposition and the revolution began. I went out Jogging on the street and saw the villagers fleeing their homes, rustling in heavy coats and stomping in tarpaulin boots size forty-eight.


- What are you doing, fellow villagers?! - I asked them.


- Light up! Thank our wise President and Goverment! - They answered with a joyful cry. After half an hour, while people really did not have time to eat his meager dinner and lay the mattress and warmed up their TV set with the included black and white picture, which works with the help of stabilizers, again turned off the light.


Some citizens complain about the lack of gas. Oh, well, if these fools don't even know, so this dangerous gas. Last winter our house almost burned down because of the gas. In our village people in order to use the gas in the tube install motors, mounted in a tin can with the aid of this mechanism they installed the gas pipe, leaving the blue fuel to their neighbors. After consulting with my stepfather and stepmother, I also bought a mother of this kind and mounted it in the pipe of our solid fuel burning stove. As the motor started to work, it immediately began to do the blue fuel in the stove and our stove with joy roared terribly like a ship far sailing in among the icy expanses of the Arctic Ocean. The flames in the solid fuel burning stove fluttered like a flag on the flagpole and in a short time we became hot. Stepfather and stepmother are happy, praising me. When it became stuffy, I had to remove a jacket with a hat with ear flaps and sitting in a t-shirt and in the Finnish sauna and sweating. Even breathing has become difficult in the unbearable heat. Suddenly, a motor mounted in a tin can, handing out the sound of a bat exploded, flying in different directions. It turns out the pressure on the pipeline rose sharply. Suddenly, the flames rose to semi-meter, if not more, and our shack has become like a stone in the caves of hell fire, Stepmother in hysterics screaming piercing voice as the sound of an old factory bell, calling for the help of people. I'm shocked. I stand rooted to the spot. Look, the stepfather also critic like a wild man at the waterfall.


- Mizhappar! Look, my son is adopted; the sheepskin is lit with a mattress near the stove! Put it out, for God's sake! Oh, gentlemen! - He ratted.


- I see, I see, stepfather! - I'll put it out! - I answered shouting and began to feverishly stomp on the flame, which is terribly raged about our stoves. I trampled the fire with the help of my flat feet, similar to the fins of divers, and finally, I managed to successfully localize the fire. But while fighting the fire, my pants burned to the ground and they turned into shorts. I've been afraid of gas ever since, saved us from the death of our poverty, because we accept the clay floor, clay walls and ceiling almost nothing. If we had wooden floors and ceilings, luxurious furniture, we would have burned down. And from there the proverb was modernized, not beauty, but the poor will save the world. Here you are a great scholar in the field of swearing, think about it, if the people of the planet would be poor, they would not have been able to invent the atomic and nuclear bombs, right, Mr. Sitmirat? If a poor man and a hungry one, he will generally think about inventions all over the world. They would also like we are in hopes to find his bread, they would work on cotton plantations from morning to evening, picking cotton, not ceasing even in the cold days of December with your children. I firmly believe that wealth and luxury is the number one enemy of humanity. After the fire that broke out in our house, like a closet, I dismantled the pipes from the gas pipeline and we started to heat our shack with the help of pressed dung, that is, cow shit, although the dung in the stove burns slowly and smells bad, but it is safe for human life. Produced dung is also not difficult. He sat on his ass and for God's sake goes to the lawn, where growing junipers, it was full of dung, which cows produced. Collect on health, put them in your bag and the police will not even bring you to justice. Sometimes the mowed rye field will also become a quarry of fuel for energy resources for us, that is, for the poor. It is necessary to live in harmony with nature, not destroy it.

With great respect, the worker of the collective farm 'Chapaev' Mizhappar.


21 January, 2008. 19 hours and 15 minutes.

Collective Farm "Chapaev".